#010. 2004年7月23日 {Yagami Soichiro}


It seems wrong to be back here without your son.

That's what you think, as you stand beside the car door and look at the familiar house; the windows are lit, cheerful in the darkness. Inside is your wife and daughter; and they don't know anything about the Kira case. Not really.

It's a kindness.

And yet, the thought of stepping back inside after all this time, without him, makes you feel ill.

You said you wouldn't go home until you could do so with your son freed. But all you can remember is the way he screamed and begged, the terror in his eyes when he thought you were about to shoot.

"Chief?" Matsuda asks, hesitantly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Matsuda," you say gruffly, and the younger detective nods.

"Uh, okay then. Well. I'll see you tomorrow, if you want… I can drive you back to the hotel too…"

"That won't be necessary, but thank you."

He bows slightly, gets into the car, and as you step up the path toward your front door, you can hear that the car is still there, idling. When you turn around to look back at him, Matsuda waves, and drives off, leaving you alone.

You take a deep breath, and steel yourself.

Knock.

Sachiko is the one who opens the door.

When she sees you, her eyes widen. She is as beautiful as ever, but she looks tired and stressed, and you wonder for a moment if she won't let you in.

"Soichiro," she says. "Where's Light? Where's my son?"

You open your mouth to repeat the story, and tiredness crashes over you. The sound of his screams, the gun's blast, the noise and heat of it, the pounding of your own heart as you wondered if this was the moment you would die… you can't do it. You can't look into your wife's eyes and tell her again that you've disowned him.

"He's still with Misa," you say instead.

"You've spoken with him?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I said I had reconsidered. But Light is still angry at me, and for good reason. I don't think he'll be in contact with us right away."

"But you left the option open."

"Yes, Sachiko. I couldn't…" Your eyes close for a moment, and if you weren't trying with all your strength to stand tall you would be swaying on your feet. Your mouth is dry, and you feel every second of your age, weighing you down. You open your eyes, say firmly, "I couldn't do anything less."

"Then I'm glad you're back," Sachiko says softly. "I missed you, these months. I know you called, but I couldn't help but worry…" she reaches forward, runs a hand through a flyaway strand of your hair; "you've gone grey, Soichiro."

You laugh faintly. "Not so impressive as I was in my youth I suppose."

"Oh, shh. It's distinguished. I just hate to think of what you've had to deal with all this time." She steps back, opens the door for you to enter, and you take off your shoes on the threshold, following her into the house.

"Is Sayu all right?" you ask. Sachiko's gone into the kitchen and you follow her as she puts a kettle on the stove; you stand for a moment, hesitantly, in front of your chair before sliding it out and sitting down.

"Just as she was when you called two days ago. She misses Light terribly, and it's hard for her, but she's a strong girl."

"That's good."

The water has not yet boiled; Sachiko slides out her own seat and sits across from you. She reaches, and you clasp her hand across the table, and find that your breathing comes easier now than it has for a long time.

As ever, there are things you cannot speak of to her or to anyone. Details of the case, the suspicion that has fallen on your son, the way the silence during solitary had crept in and strangled you, leaving you hungry for any voice and more hopeless with each passing day. The sound of your son's screams ringing in your ears, and the terrible unease when you had doubted him for days on end.

But words are not everything. They are not even close to the sum of your life's experiences, and the steadiness of her hand and her presence are like a rock, keeping you standing upon your foundations when your own feet are not enough.

She stands up, pours the tea into a pot on the table, and lets it steep; then when you have two cups to hold you both sit beside each other on the couch, and she leans against your side. You turn your head, breathe in the scent of her, press your lips tremblingly to her cheek.

This is the first time you've been home in fifty-three days.

And you are.

.

.

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